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“Cup of cocoa it is. I’m not even going to ask about marshmallows. You’ll thank me later.”
She whirls toward the range while Ann comes forward, holding out a towel. “Dry off before taking another step. Don’t want water all over the floor. We weren’t joking earlier—weather like this, you’re gonna want to wear a poncho and grab an umbrella. Remember the giant one on your front porch? We didn’t put it there for show.”
I nod, too soaked to argue. At least I’m not shivering anymore. While the air-conditioning in Vaughn’s office had been freezing, the rest of the atoll remains its usual eighty-five-degree rainforest self. The intense humidity has merely solidified into water droplets. Yippee.
“Successful morning?” Trudy calls out.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to lie, but it’s for Vaughn to deliver the news. I go with, “Any chance there’s leftover crepes?”
“Never,” Ann states cheerfully. “But don’t worry, we’ll make them again next time we get a shipment of fresh bananas. How was the PB&J?”
“Like childhood all over again.”
“Ronin approve of your hummus wrap?” Trudy wants to know.
I shrug, unpacking the cooler, including the two extra sandwiches we never got around to eating, post–grave exhumation.
“He’s very polite,” Ann hums in approval.
“And handsome,” Trudy adds.
“Just ask Aolani,” Ann whispers, poking me in the ribs with a wicked smile. Vaughn’s right; there are no secrets on this island.
“Doesn’t mean a girl can’t enjoy the sights,” Trudy says knowingly. “I recommend a sunrise walk along Eaton’s Beach, where a certain someone starts his morning with tai chi. Or maybe it’s tae kwon do. It’s shirtless, which is the relevant point.”
“So that’s why you’ve been getting up so early!” Ann gawks at her friend.
Trudy grins, snaps off the range, and grabs a white mug from the rack above. I deliver the leftovers to the fridge, then stack the untouched water bottles back into the freezer. Used containers in the sink, cooler positioned next to the utility sink for rinsing, and then Trudy is standing in front of me with a steaming mug of hot chocolate.
I feel like a wet dog, yet just the smell of the cocoa, the waft of sugar from the melting marshmallows, and I’m seven years old again. It’s not my mother who’s standing at the stove, as she’s off working yet another job to keep a roof over our heads, but my father, in a rare moment of sobriety. His hands are shaking, as they do when he’s drying out. But he’s stirring the saucepan and prattling away about something. The history of cocoa, the first time he ate chocolate, his own mom’s recipe for perfect no-bake fudge cookies, whatever.
My father loved to tell stories. And he was one of those great animated narrators. His hands would fly, his body shift and contort, his voice boom, then soften, then boom again. I would lean forward in anticipation of some great reveal, then gasp and whip back, only to lean forward again.
I remember the smell of the cocoa. The warm feel of the kitchen. But mostly, the dazzling wonder that was my father when he wasn’t drowned in a bottle of Jack. His sobriety never lasted. I don’t have memory of a time I expected anything different. But unlike my mother, who went through life with a pinched look of disappointment and general air of exhaustion, I accepted each moment as it came. This rare afternoon with my father, his shaking hands scalding the milk but then compensating with a pinch of cinnamon and cayenne as that’s how cocoa was meant to be served. And me positively wide-eyed as I took the first sip, loving the sweet, totally shocked by the spicy.
My father roaring with laughter at the look on my face. Attempting his own taste, except his trembling hands spilled his drink, but no matter, I bounced up and grabbed the paper towels just in time to see him pull a small bottle out of his pocket, pour the contents into his mug.
I didn’t say a word as, even then, I understood there was nothing to say. I just waited a few years; then I joined him in drunken oblivion. After that, we took turns disappointing my mother.
Till one day they were dead.
My parents were my first lesson that you can genuinely love someone and still not do right by them. While my own downward spiral into alcoholism became my first education in that knowing better doesn’t mean you’ll behave better.
I’ve never looked back on my childhood and wished my father were sober; it’s beyond my comprehension. I do wish, however, that I had been. That I could’ve been a source of pride to my mother, who worked so hard. That I could’ve been a source of inspiration for my father, who was a good man, just weak. At a certain point, I realized they truly loved me the best they could. But they died before I knew if they realized the same about me—that I loved them, too. Drunk, sober. Happy, sad.
They were mine, and I’ve never figured out how to hold their memory close or let them go. I just keep moving, a rolling stone.
Ann pats my shoulder. I’m holding the mug with tears in my eyes. I catch myself, force a smile.
“It’s okay,” Trudy says kindly. “Chocolate has the same effect on me.”
“Take your time,” Ann assures me. “Rain like this slows everything down.”
I nod, manage the first sip, almost cry again at the taste. “Cinnamon and cayenne.”
“Only way to make it,” Trudy assures me.
“Maybe you’d like a nap,” Ann offers.
